


A Pair of Dull Scissors in the Yellow Light

by lit_chick08



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Haircuts, Kink Meme, Older Woman/Younger Man, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:20:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lit_chick08/pseuds/lit_chick08
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"And the history books forgot about us, and The Bible didn't mention us, not even once."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Pair of Dull Scissors in the Yellow Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [honey_wheeler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_wheeler/gifts).



> written for the [ASOIAF Kink Meme](asoiafkinkmeme.livejournal.com) for the prompt: _Robb/Dacey - His hair has gotten shaggy. Dacey cuts it for him._
> 
> Title and summary come from "Samson" by Regina Spektor

It starts innocently enough.

A strategy session in King Robb's tent becomes a drinking session, and Smalljon makes an off-handed comment about Dacey cutting his hair before the last battle. Dacey hardly acknowledges it; the entire event took all of twenty minutes, and she had only done so after Smalljon nearly blinded himself in one eye trying to shear his own hair while drunk. It isn't until the men are leaving that the king gently touches her wrist, stilling her retreat, and asks, “Would you cut my hair, Lady Dacey?”

Long before they gave him a crown, Dacey had a soft spot for Ned Stark's eldest son. She remembers him from her visits to Winterfell, always trying so hard to imitate his father, always wanting to be the perfect little Lord-in-waiting; she danced with him once at a feast, back before he had come into manhood, when she still towered over him by a head-and-a-half, and he had desperately tried not to stare at her breasts as he sputtered through pleasantries. Dacey recalls the way she and Lyra had laughed about little Robb Stark, how he would grow to be handsome and ladies all over the North would line up to share his bed; Lyra especially had thought she wouldn't mind being Lady of Winterfell when Robb Stark aged, but Dacey scoffed, said Robb Stark was a nice enough boy but too Southron for her tastes, Stark blood or not.

He stands as tall as she does now, broad through the chest and trim at the waist; there is still something Southron about his manners, which Dacey credits to Lady Catelyn, but Dacey sees the North in him now. His blue eyes may be those of the Tullys, but the serious, almost mournful look to them is something Dacey recognizes in every Northerner, even herself.

It isn't until he makes the request of her Dacey realizes his auburn curls have grown wild during their campaign. His hair is as thick as her own, and the curls fall across his forehead and droop into his eyes, given him a wholly boyish appearance; the locks brush his collar in the back, and, though Ned Stark always kept his hair long, the look does not suit his son.

“Let me fetch scissors,” is all she says.

When she returns to the tent with scissors she borrows from one of the nurses following the camp, her king is sitting on a chair, sipping Arbor gold. The hunch of his shoulders telegraphs how tired he is, and, though the same exhaustion and weariness aches in Dacey's bones, she feels sympathy for him, for the boy who has lost his father and his sense of stability, who has had a crown thrust upon him and, with it, the expectations of all the North and Riverlands.

“Do you wish for me to drape a sheet around your shoulders or would you prefer to remove your shirt?”

Robb's face flushes as red as his hair, and it reinforces for Dacey just how _young_ he is. She is willing to wager Robb Stark has never bared his chest in front of anyone who is not family or a maester, let alone a woman ten years his senior. 

“Which did Smalljon choose?”

Puzzled by the question, Dacey replies, “He removed his shirt, Your Grace.”

The king nods minutely, stripping to the waist, setting his shirts on the table with a peculiar sense of care. Dacey moves to stand behind him, and she sees the defined muscles of his back dancing beneath his skin as he shifts back and forth in the chair, trying to get comfortable; she smiles at the way his blush extends down his neck, and she feels a rush of affection for this boy to whom she bends her knee, for whom she fights alongside and would die in order to protect.

His hair is thick and surprisingly soft; Dacey sinks her fingers into it, deciding how short to cut it, and she feels him shiver at the scratch of her nails against his scalp. At first Dacey works in silence, snipping away curls that most ladies would give anything to have, but, feeling the increasing tension in his body, she asks, “Who usually cuts your hair, Your Grace?”

“Tommy,” he chokes out, his voice cracking before he clears his throat. “He is in service to Winterfell. When I was small, my mother did.”

“My sister Alysane cut my hair once. Of course, I did not want her to do so; she was angry I had taken something of hers. It took years for my hair to grow back to what it was.”

Dacey expects him to laugh or share a story of his own siblings; she does not expect him to say, “You have beautiful hair, Lady Dacey.”

Her hair is longer now than she has ever kept it, often woven into a long, thick braid which she keeps tucked into the back of her shirts and furs to keep it under control; she had not even realized Robb Stark noticed it at all. “Thank you, my king.”

“You may – You may call me by my name if you wish. There's no one to hear.”

“You are my king and my liege lord before that; it would not be proper.”

“Please,” is all he says, vulnerability creeping into his voice, and Dacey wonders how long it has been since someone has referred to him as anything more than a title. 

She brushes the hair from his shoulders, feeling gooseflesh rise on his skin. As she finishes, sifting his hair through her fingers one last time to make sure it is even, Dacey softly blows at hair clinging to his neck; the king's entire body seems to quake at the action, and Dacey murmurs, “I'm sorry, Robb. I did not mean to give you a chill.”

“You're not finished, are you?”

“If I cut any more, you'll be bald.”

His soft exhalation of disappointment stirs something in Dacey's chest, a combination of affection and pity; she sets the scissors on the table before sinking her fingers into his now shortened locks, lightly scratching his scalp. He moans softly in his throat, pushing his head appreciatively into her hands, reminding Dacey of a cat, and she silently chuckles at her king.

 _He just wants to be touched_ , she thinks as she teases the nape of his neck with her nails before returning to his hair. Dacey understands the impulse; war is difficult under any circumstances, and gentleness is in short supply. She wonders if there was some girl at Winterfell Robb Stark used to share kisses with, who used to touch him; Dacey doubts her king has bedded a woman, but he isn't so young as to have not realized the chaste pleasures a woman can offer.

His head lolls forward as she massages his head. Dacey does not know why she leans forward to brush her lips wetly against the sensitive skin just beneath his hairline, but Robb jerks as if she has kissed a place far more interesting. She opens her mouth to apologize for being so brazen when he whispers, “Again, please.”

She kisses the back of his neck, the pulse point on his throat, the dappling of freckles across her skin, the first few bumps of his spine; her hands slip from his hair, kneading the tense muscles of his shoulders before slipping down his chest. Her nails scrape through the tufts of russet hair there, and, when her fingers graze his nipples, Robb groans her name before pushing to his feet with such suddenness it startles her. Dacey sees the rapid rise and fall of his chest as he breathes raggedly, his face ruddy beneath his beard; the laces of his pants strain tight over his cock, and Dacey is surprised a few simple touches could affect him so strongly.

“Thank you, Lady Dacey. I appreciate...your service. You may go.”

His words are so strained and stilted, Dacey realizes he's nervous, scared even; it is something which makes her soften towards him even more. “Is that what you want?”

Robb's eyes swell with longing and regret as he pants, “A king does not have the luxury of wanting, my lady. Thank you for cutting my hair.”

Dacey nods, strangely disappointed by the rejection. Picking up the scissors, she hesitates for a moment, acutely aware of Robb's eyes upon her; she turns to face him, studying him for a moment, before declaring, “Should you have need of me again, I am happy to serve.”

His eyes widen in surprise as he registers the true meaning of her words before nodding jerkily in understanding. “I will keep that in mind.”

She wonders if Robb Stark takes himself in hand that night, remembering her touch and imagining what pleasures she could bring to him.

From that day forward, Dacey makes sure she finds a way to touch her king; it is never overt, never inappropriate, but Dacey knows he needs it, needs to be reminded there is still gentleness and pleasure in the world. Sometimes he touches her back – fingers brushing the lacework of veins at her wrist, a hand on the small of back as he leads her somewhere, an absentminded brush of the backs of his fingers against her thigh when they are seated beside each other during meals – and Dacey always feels the restraint in his movements, the desire for _more_ and the frustration he cannot have it.

In another life, Dacey knows they would be lovers, knows she would show Robb Stark how to make love to a woman and enjoy the press of his body against hers. But in this life, there is too much at stake for the King in the North to pursue his guard, too many notions of honor and propriety warring in his head to ever fathom the idea that Dacey finds nothing shameful in sharing her bed with a man she likes.

His honor will get him killed one day, will get _her_ killed as well.

But Dacey doesn't know that, can't even fathom it.


End file.
